Too Big To Hold
by RipredtheGnawer
Summary: "I get to my feet feeling much older than thirteen, a thousand years at least. This has got to stop. If the cycle doesn't end soon, somebody's going to catch something too big to hold. Like what's happened here." Written for Starvation's CATCH! R&R PLEASE


**A/N: Written, very late, for the May 2010 prompt on Starvation Forum. In case you're wondering, I only wrote this because I LOVE TO WRITE and it's fun to use prompts. They make you think.**

**Disclaimer: I'm not Suzanne Collins  
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"The rebels! The rebels!"

That's what they're all screaming, and I'm so glad to see the parachutes falling, the little hands reaching up to catch them, because finally they'll have food and medicine and things to make them happy. I'm so caught up in relief that I fall to the ground in shock when almost two dozen of them explode.

"We have to help!" I yell at my mother, and thank goodness, she's already got half the team moving towards the children. My eyes move, horrified, over the macabre scene, taking in the blood and solitary limbs and I can _hear_ them, wailing and calling out.

The Peacekeepers have cleared the way – not for us, but they're not about to slow us down, because surely they can see our medical kits. I'm right, they're letting us pass. Good. This means we'll be able to save more of them.

So many have already died, though, as soon as the parachutes blew up. Most likely incinerated in a split second, not even a sound but the deafening bomb. Who would do this to children?

I find a small girl with a large burn on her arm, maybe seven years old, whimpering and shoving it underneath the snow. With gentle hands, I clean the wound and bandage it, hurrying but being careful at the same time.

How often had I imagined helping people like this? It was one of my most common daydreams, back before the end of the world. When I was always hungry but those I loved were always there, too, and that made it okay.

Then I catch sight of one boy, bloodied and burned so badly that I know he won't make it. Still, I can't bear to leave him lying there, writhing and screaming in obvious agony. All the same, the shock of his condition makes me trip, and my hood falls back. The winter air is cold, jolting me into awareness.

I make it to the boy's side, and I can see that he's only about four years old. _Only four_. Why can't people see that this sort of thing causes more suffering than it could ever stop? Any peace that could come from the war isn't worth all this death.

"Shhh, it's okay," I tell him, and he bawls even louder. I wipe the blood from his face and he looks at me, gray eyes bright and scared.

"Want Mama," he says, his voice high-pitched from pain and fear and youth. I can't see anyone who might be his mother – of course not; everyone who's been injured here is less than eighteen.

"She's coming," I lie, my heart stinging.

"So cold!" he whispers, shivering, the snow bleeding red around us. I take off my coat and lay it over him, just to do what little I can. To ease his passage.

His fingers are going cold, though that might just be the time of year. It's got to be something more, I think, because his face is turning gray and I can feel myself starting to cry, just like this little cherub without a name.

Why did they catch the parachutes? Why were they dropped, anyways? It's not a question of motives – I'm not stupid. I know how people are, how greedy they can be, though this is the only war I've been around for. What I want to know is, what good can possibly come from killing all these children?

I slip off my coat, shivering in the harsh wind, and blanket the boy with it. He's almost gone now, I can feel it, but I can't help covering him up. I won't leave him. If he can't die with his family he can at least die with someone who cares.

With a final moan, the little boy's eyes flutter shut and his head lolls. He's dead. I get to my feet feeling much older than thirteen, a thousand years at least. This has got to stop. If the cycle doesn't end soon, somebody's going to catch something too big to hold. Like what's happened here.

I hear it on the wind, the ghost of a voice, my name from the lips of a phantom. I know the speaker – but she can't be here, can she? There it is again, the oddly desperate cry.

"Prim!"

I turn, and I can see her black braid, a darker twin of mine, and I can see her gray eyes, wide with horror. Though she's wounded, my mouth curves into a smile.

"Katniss…?"


End file.
